


A Time to Scatter Stones (and a Time to Gather Them)

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Inappropriate Use of Biblical References, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: The soft sound of Aziraphale’s steps is like the susurration of snow. He’s making his way through the radiant flurry of too-white flakes dwindling down to St James’s Park. This is the kind of snow children dream about but only their grandparents remember; all that matters to Crowley is how its chill makes Aziraphale’s nose an intolerable shade of lovely, lovely pink.





	A Time to Scatter Stones (and a Time to Gather Them)

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: there's a reference to Crowley's canon-typical suicidal thoughts

 

☆*:.｡. winter .｡.:*☆

 

The soft sound of Aziraphale’s steps is like the susurration of snow. He’s making his way through the radiant flurry of too-white flakes dwindling down to St James’s Park. This is the kind of snow children dream about but only their grandparents remember; all that matters to Crowley is how its chill makes Aziraphale’s nose an intolerable shade of lovely, lovely pink.

Aziraphale raises his wings above his bowed head as he takes a sip from a paper cup of tea, smiling at Crowley apologetically even as he hastens his pace, all but rushing towards him, as if he couldn’t bear  one more second of his friend sitting _alone_ on a bench, their bench, which is _—_ miraculously _—_ never taken.

Crowley feels rather flushed just from being in his relative vicinity, and he could tell him this: how Aziraphale’s eyes are the blue-green of the lake dozing under the ice, how his hair shines with the brilliance of stars on an August night, how his smile brings back the warmth that winter has stolen away.

What he says instead is this, “Let’s go to Costa Brava, it’s freezing balls.” 

It almost means the same. It means what he stopped saying, _come run away with me_. He’s quite certain there isn’t a place or a time where he’d rather be than right here, right now, with Aziraphale by his side as he sits down next to him, a shoulder bumping into his awkwardly. The bleak that seized Crowley’s entire body seems to be easing, instantly, warmth blooming from that single point of contact _—_ and yet, a shiver runs through him nevertheless. He hugs himself, tight, bends forward, but he has no body heat to protect from the elements: curling up never helped. Aziraphale runs gloved fingers up his curved back, his touch feather-light, delicate. Crowley must be imagining that he can feel the delicious caress on his naked skin even through the layers of his coat, sweater and undershirt.

“Poor thing,” Aziraphale says with the kind of genuine sympathy that never follows this sentence, not in human speech. “You should be hibernating.”

Crowley scoffs, sarcastic, presses into Aziraphale’s palm with a joke on the tip of his tongue, a crude remark about sharing body heat that wouldn’t achieve anything. He doesn’t know how to ask for it. Doesn’t know how to say, _sleeping through winter, that’d be awfully lonely_ , and _care to join me_? Imagines Aziraphale in his sheets just the same, and tries to convince himself that it’s about Lust and Sloth, but he knows it’s just Envy that only humanity can indulge in depravity, have been doing so as long as they existed, and Crowley hasn’t got a single clue how to go about it, despite all this demonic sod, because it doesn’t _feel_ like a deadly sin, what he longs for; it doesn’t feel wrong, not at all.

And that? That is a terrifying prospect, right there.

 

☆*:.｡. spring .｡.:*☆

 

Aziraphale is cradling lilies to his chest, a straw hat upon his forehead, a souvenir from his gardening days. Crowley is watching him from the tall grass, lying on his stomach, black coat laid out like a sombre picnic blanket. His sunglasses slid down his nose, so half of the world is tinted by artificial darkness, and the other half is all too bright. The lilies shine; _how ironic it is_ , Crowley thinks, _that the flowers of purity are toxic._

They’re in Highgate Cemetery; Aziraphale likes to bring flowers to the graves no one visits. Stone angels and sunken crosses surround them, mementos of fading faith, marble plaques that say _rest in peace._

What rubbish. Eternal peace is fiction. A cruel story to lull you to sleep. Death is changing perpetually; there’s no _rest_ involved in it, but Crowley longs for it, not how death actually is, but how humans imagine it, _atheists_ , their glorious vision of nihilism. He wishes it was that easy, he wants it, to be buried six feet deep and let the rain sweep his bones away. 

He rolls to his back and squints at the bright blue sky. Maybe he’s imagining it, but as centuries pass, it keeps getting further away from him. He reaches out, tries to calculate the fall he took, but doesn’t know if he should measure it in miles per hour or broken bones and shattered chances.

“ _Thou hast ravished my heart, my spouse,_ ” Aziraphale hums, carrying his fragrant lilies. “ _Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How much better is thy love than wine! And the smell of thine ointments than all spices! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; mmm, something-something-tralalala; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon_.”

Crowley reckons the song is not about him: his clothes stink of smoke, whatever he does; they soaked up sulphur just like his soul.

 

☆*:.｡. summer.｡.:*☆

 

Aziraphale is lounging on Crowley’s leather sofa that was, evidently, not designed for sitting, if the numbness of his bum is anything to go by. The telly is on, _The Great British Bake Off_ is on, such a delightful show, but he only has eyes for Crowley. He’s standing by the window in nothing but a surprisingly stylish set of sweatpants, due to the heat and the early hours, no doubt. Aziraphale watches him take a chug of iced coffee, frowning, damp locks of red hair sticking to his neck. Aziraphale observes the sweat on his back, feeling the kind of elated restlessness he experiences opening a new book or hearing the first haunting notes of a choir.

His gaze keeps moving in quick jumps and skips. He notes that Crowley’s body is perfect, his torso like marble with dynamic angles, and of course it looks exquisite: it was designed by the most remarkable artist.

Crowley keeps taunting him that Heaven is awfully dull, but Aziraphale is convinced that if this moment right here was his eternity, he’d be perfectly content, even happy: he could watch the movement of bone and sinewy muscle under Crowley’s pale skin incessantly, the incomparable shine of the sun illuminating his darling frame, the specks of dust dancing around him. The scars where his wings burned and melted to black.  If only he could kiss them better.

Crowley turns to him, gaze burning yellow, pupils narrow. Aziraphale closes his eyes, just for a second, and he can still see him, his vessel, his _body_ just as familiar as his own, and yet it still _—_ fascinates him, just like the soul it contains.

He blinks his eyes open, noting with delight that Crowley has gotten closer, is now standing behind the sofa, within reach. He looks at the telly, then back at Aziraphale.

“Who won?” he asks, casual.

“Nobody,” Aziraphale says. “There’s an intermission.”

“Ad break.”

“Whatever you wish to call the silence before the storm.”

They smile at each other, and there’s something frightened in their laughter. They reach out at the exact moment, fingers linked together, and Aziraphale helps Crowley step onto the backrest, pulls him up, higher, higher.

 

☆*:.｡. autumn ｡.:*☆

 

The wind is tearing at the branches of the trees, falling leaves exploding in a burst of colour when they kiss each other in St James’s Park. Aziraphale embraces Crowley with his ruffled wings, his cream coat flying about him. His kiss is sweet like ripe fruits from the trees of Eden, every swipe of his tongue cautious but curious. Crowley is all want and teeth, a muffled moan, then fingers gripping Aziraphale’s jaw, a thumb on his throat, feeling his jumping pulse.

 

Their lips melt in an unexpected harmony as thunder rolls in. It’s going to be a dark and stormy night, they know it; they also know they’ll weather through it. 

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks for ktula for beta'ing this fic! The title is from Ecclesiastes 3:5, and Aziraphale is humming a gender-neutral version of Solomon 4:9-11, bless his heart.
> 
> There's a moodboard for the fic on [tumblr](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/185472447601/a-time-to-scatter-stones-and-a-time-to-gather) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1137719360313843712)


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